


Far Too late

by a_starlit_sky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Self Harm, Slight swearing, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:12:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7867303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_starlit_sky/pseuds/a_starlit_sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just how much longer, how many more times can you tell yourself today is just another bad day, and that it's not a bad life? How many more times can you put that mask back on? The answer: not forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far Too late

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hey there! First time using this site so apology for potential errors. Before you read this just be aware that this is very much a quite dark and depressing fic. Apologies again for that. And as always, if you are suicidal, or triggered by suicide or suicidal intention or any of the warnings listed, PLEASE DO NOT READ. I cannot stress this enough. Your safety comes first. 
> 
> If you are suicidal, or considering suicide PLEASE tell someone and get help.

They say suicide is a selfish act.

But there again, any person who sat there, perched on the edge of bed at 3am, feeling nothing inside other than a numbing agony that claws away at them, would most definitely have said otherwise. Unless you had ever felt that low, that exhausted and pained, and simply, just done, then you could never understand it truly. They say suicide is selfish as they stand by and watch you suffer, and never offer to help. Not once. They say suicide is selfish and yet they can't and they won't even begin to understand the pain you are in, this numbness, this darkness that is consuming you.

They say suicide is selfish, yet, how selfish is it to let a person in pain slip away and be at peace. And yet, they want you to live on, in this state, for their benefit.  
Just how much longer, how many more times can you tell yourself today is just another bad day, and that it's not a bad life? But you see, today hasn't been the only bad day, it's been bad your entire fucking life. You want to scream at them. Yell until your voice breaks and your lungs fill with blood, until your ears burst, and your throat cracks, leaving you only with dying whispers.

How many more times can you put that mask back on?

The answer: not forever.

And I guess that is why this man lies dying in crappy motel bathroom, with peeling lime-green paint, once white tiles stained yellow, and a single flickering ceiling light, with mould in places that shouldn't have been possible. That's why the floor's has been painted, in a bold and thick, beautiful crimson red, at as though it were an irony to decaying little room.

Maybe even an irony to his life.

For now the light which once shone in his green eyes is fading fast, and with no hope of stopping. It's like water escaping from an old and rusty broken bucket; except the water is oozing blood, and cracked bucket is his wrists. His arms look like bone covered in thin pale skin as they lay there sliced open in neat lines as deep as ocean trenches; with rich red blood spilling over, filling the cracks and tile gaps around his broken body. At a distance it looked like murder scene. The victim left to choke on what was left with their fading life, and the sharped edged murderer just looking on with elated glee. Though splattered with red, it gleams a cold dull silver, as if it were pleased that its sharp tongue has yet claimed another life.

And it will claim another life. For this man's clothed chest no longer rises in strong breathes but rather short and painless ones. And his neck, tilting his head slightly leftwards, no longer strains against his fate.

This dying soul, once bright and pure, and full of life- now black and foggy- feels peaceful because he no longer has to live a life full of mistakes and regrets and failures, and feeling like he can only ever hate everything he is and done wrong. He has paid his debts, and served time for crimes he feels he has committed; and now it is time to rest.  
The man's mind wonders, or drifts, who knows. Never once in his life did he think he would ever hear silence. Well not hear, because silence has no sound, yet to not hear anything; for his silence was always haunted by taunting whispers- laughing and screaming words of torment into his head everything single time. And they were never satisfied. They always ached for more pain to be felt, more blood and booze to plague his body and mind.

They don't whisper anymore. Not now. The mindless destruction that marks his body was nothing compared to final show. But now there is silence. Sweet silence. Sweet, never ending silence.

And he closes his eyes for the very last time, because, there will not be a tomorrow.

The shoddy bathroom door flies open with a thud and at such a speed that it dents the poorly plastered wall behind it. A second man, a little taller than the other, appears and is already on the floor, with knees clothed in blue, threadbare jeans, becoming stained in cold and drying blood. And he cries, and he screams, and yells for his older brother to just wake up. But he can't; not anymore.

He is far, far too late.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanking you all for reading, sorry again for such a depressing lil' story & my terrible writing, and as always: 
> 
> Stay safe, dream big xx


End file.
